


Long Exposure

by hyrude



Category: Young Justice, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Photographer Wally, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 10:33:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2188500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyrude/pseuds/hyrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dick Grayson, a 21-year-old circus acrobat, stumbles onto a leather-bound book containing the most enthralling, picturesque images he's ever seen and makes it his duty to find the rightful owner.  Guided only by the locations inside, the names "Spitfire" and "WW," and the familiar tug in the back of his mind, he discovers that the owner has lost a whole lot more than a photo album.</p><p>In which Wally is done fighting for what he deserves.<br/>In which Dick isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Exposure

**_September 29, 2014_**

The familiar rattling of the train was usually enough to lull any circus veteran to sleep, especially after coming off yesterday’s late night performance in Central City, but Dick Grayson couldn’t possibly have been more awake. The biggest performance of the year was in only a few hours, and it would happen in the only fixed place that he could truly call home: Gotham. Dick’s left leg bounced restlessly as he peered out the window at the passing surroundings.

He knew he was working himself up for no good reason; everyone would perform as marvelously as always, the crowd would be as ecstatic and friendly as always, and Bruce would smile sincerely and clap Dick on the back and tell him how proud he was that he was back to doing something he loved. As always.

Dick’s right leg joined in the excited bouncing as the train passed the heavily graffiti’d “Welcome to Gotham City!” sign on its right.

Perhaps it was a little silly to get so worked up over performing back at home again, especially given how often he came to visit between shows anyway, but Dick couldn’t help the anticipation of seeing Gotham the same way he had when he visited for the first time: from inside a circus tent. The thoughts of his return made him feel like a child again, light and free and coiled with excess energy.

Looking out the window certainly didn’t help dampen his elation, either. Dick never realized how much meaning he placed in the state of the world around him, but when the journey back through Gotham wasn’t marked by a single customary gray cloud, Dick knew this was a day to remember.

He’d glanced through the window anywhere between ten and thirty times before finally deeming himself unable to stand the stillness and slow breathing of his bunkmates any longer. Careful not to wake any of the other circus members from their slumber, he carefully maneuvered out of the train compartment and into the main hallway. He debated for a moment about taking a jacket – Gotham’s good days never lasted long – but the sun was shining and the temperature would be just chilly enough to pleasantly sting his cheeks, so Dick ducked out onto the side railing of the moving train clad in only his costume and a thin hoodie.

The wind immediately shocked into him, forcing him back half a step before he could grab onto the railing and right himself. His hair whipped around his face and feathered back comically from his forehead, cheeks flushing with the same windburnt redness that accompanied the first jumps in his routine.

Dick didn’t bother to suppress a grin and gasp at the familiarity of the gross, smoggy air now filling his lungs and suddenly felt all of his excitement entirely justified. The sense of freedom that the whooshing air friction provided could be rivaled only by the feeling of flying on the trapeze. But for the moment, even that seemed to pale in comparison to the overwhelming awareness of home.

This was a morning to appreciate things. Dick’s eyes fluttered shut and his grin faded to a content smile as he appreciated the rare natural light beaming on his face, no matter how weak it was. He appreciated the roar of the train, the clacking of the tracks, and the predictable jolting and rocking as it trudged on, heavy and reliable. He appreciated the taste of gritty Gotham air on his tongue, and most of all, he appreciated that the train transporting Haly’s Circus and all its occupants was always on time.

Dick wasn’t sure how long he remained there, reveling in the paradoxicality of the train’s signature cacophony against the serenity he was feeling. All he knew was that when he reopened his eyes due to a particularly jarring bump, something in the floorboards shifted far enough to catch Dick’s attention despite the deafening sounds.

Resting innocently on the scaffolding, just barely in view, was a book. Dick’s brow furrowed, immediately wondering how it could have possibly wound up on the outside of a train. The transit line Haly’s used was not exclusive to the circus, so it wouldn’t be out of the question for a random passenger to catch a ride, and it was easy enough to leave some belongings in the process. Dick was no stranger to looting the station’s lost and found for his own misplaced items. Even if that was the case, though, it didn’t account for the book’s current location on the train’s exterior.

His curiosity got the best of him, and Dick found himself stooping to retrieve it. Peering down at it discerningly, he ran his fingers over the smooth, leather cover and wide binding.

His fingers caught the edge of the book, and flipped it open slowly, careful to weight the sheets inside with his palms and keep the high winds from rustling them. The interior proved to be just as extravagant in quality as its cover, revealing clear plastic sleeves buckled into a 3-ring binder where there would have been bound pages and glossy, colorful Lustre paper rather than words. It became apparent, then, that the book in his hands was a photo album, and a gorgeous one at that.

The first photo was of the night sky across a bank of water that he recognized as a coast just outside of Gotham. Wispy, glowing clouds loomed eerily before the huge moon, and the stars, scarce as they were, shone bright in compliment. Instead of the familiar dankness and pollution that the coast usually held, the bay’s still water shone a reflection as clear as the scene it mirrored. Dick couldn’t help an astonished breath at the mystifying photo and the obvious eye for detail it required.

He turned to the next one almost lazily, as if in a trance, fingers sliding delicately over the sleek pages. The next image was a landscape shot of a sunset breaking through the smog over Sprang River; a myriad of colors that Dick could never imagine gracing the skies of Gotham – fingers of gold, crimson, violet – danced across the sky and reached out through the dark clouds. The amount of luck necessary for the photographer to capture this scene in the dreariest place of earth was unimaginable, but Dick had no time to dwell on it. He was already turning to the next pages, eyebrows raised comically high as each photo proved to be more beautiful and memorable than the last.

The Cape Carmine Lighthouse from the rooftop of a neighboring diner, bathed in its own welcoming light like some sort of soft, natural lens flare. The Park Row Theater, a rundown cinema in Crime Alley that held nothing but nasty memories, painted as equal parts seedy, forsaken, and rickety in a way that made Dick’s chest feel a little tighter. A sparrow perched primly on the edge of the rotting wood of the Island Dock, the small bird’s body boasting pristine plumage and stately posture, an almost comical juxtaposition to the dilapidated surroundings.

Dick marveled at every detail, noting the skillful blurring of background into foreground and careful attention to lighting in every area of each photo. Every image could have easily been belonged on the back of a postcard, or as the pages of a calendar, or accompaniment to some kind of article on everyday wonders.

He paused again on a photo of a vaguely familiar forested area, what must have been the only one remaining in the huge city. Though he couldn’t quite remember ever visiting it, the scene triggered a flood of emotion. The quiet chirping of cicadas and crickets alike was practically audible as he ran a knuckle over the shiny page, tracing the curl of a single leaf’s descent back to the ground. Trees only partially cloaked in dark oranges and browns whispered secrets on the breath of a soft breeze that tickled their branches.

A certain nostalgia bubbled in his core, and he was startled to find tears welling up. Perhaps he could chalk it up to seeing his home portrayed in such an artistic, picturesque fashion. Yes, that was it. He never would have expected to be able to call Gotham beautiful, but whoever this photographer was managed to capture every shoddy piece of Dick’s city and somehow make it look as perfect as Dick viewed it.

Dick blinked a few times and took some breaths, feeling endlessly silly for getting emotional over a couple pictures.

He dutifully turned to a new page, surprised to find a new factor introduced to the set up. It was a lovely scenery shot, just like everything had been prior to it, but an unmistakably female figure took up the right side of the shot, the gentle curve of her shoulder carving out a shallow crescent in the river she stood in front of. She was turned away from the camera, looking out across the churning, steely waters of what seemed to be the Finger River. Long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail left little other than the outline of her sharp jaw highlighted in the reflected light from the water visible, but even from the cropped view of her cheek and left shoulder blade, Dick could tell she was beautiful.

Dick didn’t linger too long, eager to see if she reappeared at all, and he was not disappointed. The very next photo featured the same woman in a wider shot that captured more of her body. In this photo, she leaned over the railing of the same dock the sparrow picture was taken on, wind rippling her tied hair into her face like a long, wispy tail, not dissimilar from standing outside a moving train did, though she made it look far more natural and beautiful than Dick did, he was sure. The side of her face was just visible enough to see her half closed eyes as she basked in the coolness that rose off the surface of the water. The photo was nothing short of lustrous.

A whistle sounded, piercing through Dick’s thoughts and shaking him back to reality. The train’s brakes were applied, persistently screeching against the tracks and gradually beginning to slow the cart down. Dick fumbled with the book in his hands for a moment before snapping it shut, fingertips briefly brushing over a raised square on the back of the album. Brows furrowing slightly, he flipped it over to see a small gold plate in one corner, embossed with tiny letters:

 

_“For my Spitfire._

_–WW”_

 

Dick hummed low in his throat as another confusing tug triggered inside his chest.

Opting not to dwell on it, Dick fought down his disappointment at being torn away from the photo album and reminded himself how excited he was to be back in GothamCity. High spirits renewed, Dick gingerly tucked the album inside his threadbare jacket and ducked back inside the train to help unload. He’d have more than enough time to think about the album later; for now, he and his circus family only had a couple of hours to get all of Haly’s set up for showtime.

Dick turned on his heel to reenter his compartment and slip the album safely under the pillow on his bunk before setting about waking the heavier sleepers.

At last, Dick found himself clambering out of the stilled train and on the cracked Gotham sidewalk that led to the same stretch of land Haly’s had set up in since it opened. An overwhelming surge of memories seemed to seep through the very air he breathed, leaving Dick giddy and peaceful all at once.

Nothing about the spot was extravagant, but it was home.

Dick attempted with some success to put the photo album at the back of his mind as he easily fell into the routine of unloading the train and waiting for the strongmen, roustabouts, and prop hands to set up the huge main tent.

Much as he wanted to keep the snapshots for himself, Dick knew that the owner – Spitfire? – had probably worked themself into a tizzy searching for it, given the unforgettable images and the obvious sentimental value that it held. If he was lucky enough to be gifted an album like that, he’d stop at nothing to get it back. Of course, the train traveled all over the world, and with no return address or real names, there was no way to tell who he was meant to return it to. Who would he even ask about something like that?

Back of his mind, right. Dick shook his thoughts from straying to the mysterious woman with the blonde ponytail and all those gorgeous panoramics, steeling himself to focus only on setting up for the show.

“Less than three hours ‘til lights up!” Haly announced in the booming voice of a ringmaster that had grown so familiar to the troupe. Dick secured as much of his own equipment under one arm as he could manage and headed into the big top, which had already been rapidly assembled. The lot lice seemed to be minimal enough, especially for Gotham, making the process much easier.

He began the long climb up to the top of the trapeze ladder, mind on autopilot, and set about the monotonous task of prepping and testing the rigging on his own with abnormally high spirits.

When Dick was finished checking, double checking, and triple checking that everything was in place, a habit he picked up the day that “Flying Graysons” ceased being plural, he made himself comfortable on the suspended platform to observe the rest of his circus family milling about below, caught up in their own pre-show setup. Dick had always enjoyed the high perch and privilege of a bird’s eye view, peering down at everyone moving with practiced purpose with the same fascination he’d had as a boy.

Legs dangling from the platform into the empty space surrounding him, Dick let his eyes flutter closed and swung his legs childishly as he marveled at all the factors shaping up to make Haly’s Cirus’ last performance of the tour to be perfect. Surrounded by all the people he loved, in the city he adored, with the promise of Bruce and Alfred coming to watch him, Dick prepared himself to give a performance more than worthy of the circumstances.

 

**\---**

 

**_September 29, 2001. 13 years before finding the photo album._**

“What do you think you’re doing, ya dud?” came the accusatory voice of a bossy, eight-year-old Dick Grayson. The dud in question whipped his head up in surprise from where he’d been staring intently at his sneakers as he tried to scale the wire fence. He lost his hold at the boy’s sudden appearance and toppled down gracelessly, foot getting caught in a space briefly and causing his decent to be just a little more painful. The catch forced his knee to straighten out, and rather than land on his feet, the boy’s back made hard contact with the ground.

Immediately snapping out of command mode, Dick wrapped both arms around his middle and chuckled at the way the other boy’s eyes had bugged out of his head at the precise moment of realization. Dick took a slight running start, lodged one foot in a slat and leapt over the fence with practiced ease, landing lightly right beside the victim, who still hadn’t moved.

Upon closer inspection, the boy at Dick’s feet couldn’t have been much older than himself, with pasty skin, bright hair, and a smattering of freckles that put Dick’s to shame. The boy had a death grip on a heavy, complicated-looking camera that dangled from a bright red strap slung around his neck. Leaning down even further, Dick observed that he also seemed to be moaning in pain.

“Oh, get up, you big drama queen,” Dick ordered, nudging the prone form below him with a bare foot. “You fell all of twenty inches.”

“The damage is  _internal,”_ the boy insisted, despite managing to force his legs back underneath himself with minimal difficulty. He peered downwards, face just a shade too distressed to fit his young face as he surveyed the state of his camera.

Dick sniggered again, stepping closer and leaving small footprints in the sand. “What, you mean your pride?”

The boy only grunted, finally satisfied that his contraption (unlike his dignity) had remained unharmed.

“You know you aren’t supposed to be here, right? The circus doesn’t open for hours, and they definitely don’t like sidewallers!” Dick ventured, shifting back into his best correctional officer voice when he was satisfied the perpetrator actually was unharmed.

“I have special permission,” the redhead responded unconvincingly.

“Oh, right, right!  _That’s_  why you had to come around the back and try to climb a fence instead of walking through the gate! Because you’re  _supposed_ to be here.”

The intruder narrowed his eyes at that, indignant. “What, and you are? You’re a kid! The circus’ dumb rules are totally designed to keep out overenthusiastic kids like you, not me. I’m not here to mess around with the lions and clowns and steal corndogs; I’m here on business.” His voice cracked just a little on the “izz” sound of business.

Dick couldn’t help another giggle at the boy’s expense. Convincing.

“Hey, what did you say your name was, again?” he asked innocently, bouncing from foot to bare foot to keep warm. “Don’t think I caught it. Unless you want me to keep addressing you as ‘dud’, dud.”

He stumbled just slightly, visibly caught off guard. The boy seemed to debate if it was safe to share his identity after trespassing, but only for a moment. “Wally,” he relented, nervous to see whether or not Dick was about to make him regret it.

“Well, Wally, I’ll have you know that I am also here on business. The family business. Haly’s family business.”

Wally took a moment to understand, but even once he did, he remained unconvinced.

“You’re telling me that you’re in the circus,” he deadpanned, unimpressed. Puffing out his chest proudly, Dick gave an enthusiastic nod.

Wally’s skeptical look did not falter one bit with the affirmation. “You’re, like. Six.”

He wrinkled up his face, now his turn to be indignant. “I’m  _eight,_ thank you very much, and yup! I’m here with the rest of the troupe. Look, I can even show you. The best part of being a circus kid is that you’re walking proof.” Dick had been wearing what looked like a plain hoodie and a pair of leggings, but he straightened up and stripped off the top layer to reveal the bright “G” of his Flying Graysons costume. He tossed the sweatshirt aside so both hands would be free to pose for extra dramatic effect.

“I’m the big finale,” Dick added, beaming at his audience’s astonished face.

“No way,” Wally breathed. “You actually are! That is… the  _absolute coolest_!”

The compliment made Dick’s grin grow impossibly wider, engaging every part of his face in the effort to look like he was glowing.

Wally’s demeanor changed completely with this development, now seeming to realize that the boy before him was about a million times more interesting than he’d accounted for. All of a sudden, he was enthralled. Dozens of questions surfaced in his mind all at once, and he delivered them all with the rapidity and unhindered admiration of a crazed boyband fan at a signing.

“But!” he finally managed to get a proper start to one of his questions, this one delivered with much less accusation than actual curiosity. “But like you said, you’re only eight, right. How did you get to be in a professional circus as a kid? I thought all those stories about running away to join the circus were myths!”

“They are, mostly,” Dick began, just as eager to be getting positive attention as Wally was to dish it out. “I mean, it’s not like you can just show up at the circus and get in. The whole point is to be real good at something. The only runaways I’ve ever seen just wound up getting redlighted… or their moms called.” At that point he shrugged and corrected himself, not wanting to leave any room for inaccuracy. “The world’s a big place, though. At some point, a kid that left home might have happened to also be able to juggle knives. I don’t claim to know everything.”

Towards the end of his rambling, Dick seemed to realize the rookie eight year old mistake he’d made in getting off track, then scrambled to properly answer the question. “I’m here because it’s my home! Both of my parents are part of the act, too, so I’ve been performing with them since forever. I’ve never lived anywhere  _but_ the circus.” His grin faded to something a little more warm when he thought about how perfect his home really was.

Wally, who now seemed to be trying to prove himself as a champion listener, had hung onto every single word out of Dick’s mouth. He launched his big question the very second Dick finished speaking.

“What  _is_ your act, anyway?”

Hopping from foot to foot to try to keep warm (in retrospect, tossing his hoodie in favor of theatrics was a bad idea), Dick’s eyes widened with an idea. “Guess!”

“Uh… ringmaster?”

One half of Dick’s mouth quirked down in a disappointed frown. “Wally, I’m pretty sure we’ve agreed by now that I’m eight. I am not a gray haired old gaffer, and I am in no way qualified to run this circus.”

“You seem pretty qualified for an eight year old, I’d say.”

“You flatter me.”

Wally chuckled almost apologetically, now holding his hands up in defense. “I’m going to be honest; I don’t actually know what a ringmaster is. It just sounded circusy.”

Dick shook his head, trying and failing to act mock disgusted due to the smile that remained on his face. For a kid who just tried to break into what was effectively Dick’s home, he was pretty fun.

“Guess again. And try harder! There aren’t that many options.”

“Fine, fine. Um. Firebreather?” Wally tried, racking his brain for acts he’d heard of before.

“Too hot.”

“Sword swallower?”

“Too  _pointy._ ”

“Lion tamer, roustabout, bearded lady? Clown?”

Dick huffed out a laugh. “Have you ever even been to the circus?”

“So, bearded lady, right?”

Dick elbowed him, smiling easily as he grabbed Wally’s arm and led him further down the path parallel to the circus’ divider.

“Here’s a hint.” They stopped in front of a particular patch of the chainlink fence that was covered with glossy paper advertisements for tonight’s show.

Wally leaned in close, glancing between the lettering on Dick’s chest and the dozens of posters littering the area, obviously trying to find an advertised act that matched up. When he spotted the same green and gold of Dick’s costume, his eyes widened.

“ ‘The Amazing Flying Graysons,’ ” he quoted from the sign, grinning freely. Wally turned back to face the very same boy in the picture, who had since widened his stance and thrown both arms above his head to mimic the pose in the promo. Wally’s face was only inches away as he breathed, “Oh wow wow wow, you’re an  _acrobat_! One of those Risley ones too, oh _wow!_ ” with what could only be described as reverence.

Dick’s lips quirked up in response, an odd mix of pride and bashfulness making his chest feel warm. He dropped back into a relaxed position. “Duh. Did you think lion tamers wear metallic tights?” he replied, but any playful bite to his words was overshadowed by the sudden blush that painted his cheeks.

Before Wally had a chance to adequately defend himself, though, the belltower near the lot sounded to alert Central City of the time. Dick counted each chime carefully, then screwed his face up in irritation when the number matched up with the time he’d been instructed to return by.

“Oh, man. That’s my cue, I guess. Mom’ll totally skin me if she knows I’m late for setup because I was hanging out with a gilly before come in even rolls around.” Dick smiled apologetically, throwing a two-fingered salute Wally’s way as he backed up.

Both of Wally’s hands flew up to stop him. “Wait, before you go… Can you do a trick? Just a little one!”

Dick’s brow furrowed, glancing hesitantly back to the fence and the back yard where set up was beginning. “You’ll be at the show tonight, won’t you? Trust me, you’ll see plen-"

“No, I won’t,” Wally interrupted, sounding equal parts urgent and embarrassed. “I don’t have a ticket.”

The smile returned to Dick’s face. “Oh, well I can get you an Annie Oakley no problem! You definitely befriended the right kinker if you want freebies.”

This time, Wally’s smile was apologetic. “I can’t come tonight at all. My parents don’t like the circus much, and they think I’m too young to go on my own. Had to sneak out just to see if I could take some pictures while everyone got set up!”

The idea of someone’s household having actual rules to prevent visiting the circus absolutely boggled Dick’s mind, but he sympathized as much as he could. “Well, in that case… maybe just  _one_  trick.”

Dick was digging one foot and one hand into the fencing beside him before he got the chance to notice how Wally’s face lit up. Using the force of his jump to propel himself backward, he flipped away from the railing, stuck the landing and immediately shifted into a cartwheel that placed him behind of a slack-jawed Wally, who worked to keep his eyes on the performer. From there, Dick dipped into a backbend fluidly before launching through a high flip-flap and righting himself back in front of his audience.

Before Wally had the chance to collect himself for applause, Dick snatched the camera from around his neck, pointed it at the two of them, and turned to face the lens with his tongue out in the most insufferable pose he could manage. He’d clicked the shutter release while Wally was still gawking like an idiot, resulting in what was possibly the worst selfie in history.

Dick cackled to himself, stringing the shoulder strap and camera back around Wally’s neck and springing back over the fence before Wally even recovered. He was just coming back to himself in time to see Dick retreating with one hand raised in a wave.

“Later, Wally! I better see you next time I’m in town!” he called out, turning back to the lot before Wally could return his wave. The sudden absence of chatter was a little startling. The only evidence that remained of their conversation was the toe prints left in the sand by the kinker’s bare feet, and the silly self-portrait saved on Wally’s camera.

It wasn’t until the trek home was almost finished that Wally realized he hadn’t even asked the acrobat’s name.


End file.
